


To find a place to call his own

by ignition



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Gen, Hogwarts First Year, Retelling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-27
Updated: 2015-10-27
Packaged: 2018-04-28 08:52:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,497
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5085763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ignition/pseuds/ignition
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Neville Longbottom isn't your typical first-year wizard, he's not even sure he's supposed to be here, it's not like he's actually good at magic. Or at friends. Or anything really.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To find a place to call his own

**Author's Note:**

> This is basically me retelling the first day at Hogwarts from Neville's perspective as canon compliant as I can. Because Neville has always been a precious little nugget to me and this is what I imagine he feels and thinks considering his upbringing.
> 
> Hopefully it's not too shitty, I didn't have a beta and me brit-picking myself felt very strange and unreliable.

It doesn’t feel as brilliant as he’d expected. Not that many things he ever expects turn out the way he happens to hope they will, Neville is rarely lucky enough for that. Yet, it’s sort of, a let-down, in the way that magical things should never be allowed to be.

Then again, how could anything ever go the way that Neville wishes?

He jumps when his grandmother’s hand grabs hold of his shoulder, pushing him towards the great train before them, guiding him sharply through the thick of the crowd. Stumbling and with slightly shaky hands he looks up at the scarlet glossy locomotive, at the smiling parents all around them and excited students that can’t seem to wait to board the train and travel off to Hogwarts and whatever adventures that await them there.

“Now please keep track of your things, I’d rather not have to owl anyone about anything lost on the train.”

It’s a warning more than it is a reminder, and Neville is fully aware. Which he frankly thinks is a little unfair; he never _means_ to lose his things. It’s not something he enjoys either, believe it or not. He says nothing though, only feels a faint blush creep up his cheeks in embarrassment and grips his trunk a little tighter.

“Don’t make a fool of yourself either, and try to make some friends.” He’s further instructed as the hand on his shoulder pats him carefully, like it’s not sure what it’s doing either.

“Yes grandmother” he answers, looking down at his neatly polished shoes and brushing a hand over his neck. They spend a moment like that, both not really looking at each other, yet attention nowhere else.

“Well then, Lucille is most certainly expecting me by now, so you go ahead and find yourself a seat.”

Lucille being Lucille Bennett, Neville knows too that his grandmother is most probably, in her eyes, inappropriately late. He finds himself utterly gratified that he is not to join the two ladies for tea, he already knows far too much about the affairs and businesses of other people and is well tired of the punch heavy fruit cakes that come with it. Searching with his eyes for a carriage with less than six people hanging out from the windows he pats himself down, absently making sure that he’s got everything where it’s supposed to be. It’s with a gulp that he digs his hand into a seemingly empty pocket in his robe. Trust Neville to lose something before he’s even managed to board the train. “Gran, I’ve lost my toad again.” He admits, scanning the floor for something small and amphibian.

“Oh _Neville_.” She sighs as she draws out her wand. “What was the name you said?”

It takes next to no time before he’s got Trevor back in his pocket, his grandmother ushering him up into a carriage that seems to have enough space for a lone first year student and is left there, daring himself to raise a hand and knock on the door to the nearest compartment.

There is only one seat left that he scrambles onto as soon as he’s gotten the okay, or well, the shrugs, in response to his question whether it was alright for him to sit there. No one in the compartment, if Neville was allowed a guess, could be over fourteen years, which allows him to let out a small breath.

“Hermione Granger” says the girl across from him, looking like she’s contemplating a handshake, but nods instead. She’s got brown bushy hair and sits in that straight proper way that Neville’s grandmother has always tried to force him into. “Are you a first year as well?”

“Uhm, yes. Neville Longbottom” Neville nods right back. No one else in the compartment spares them an inkling of interest, seemingly too busy with their own conversations.

Hermione turns out to be quite talkative of a girl, though Neville doesn’t know if it’s because she really wants to talk to him or whether it’s because he’s there and no one else has spoken to him. She is a muggle-born, he learns, which means that there is no one for her to turn to for friendly chats. Then again, Neville has probably met all of the pure-bloods of their year in person, and then some, and he is in the very same situation.

After only a little while of her monologue about the house ghosts of Hogwarts he has to excuse himself to the bathroom. It is not that he doesn’t particularly enjoy the onslaught – he prefers the chatter to silence – but more of the overwhelming feeling of drowning without anyone seeing it. Which incidentally has happened once or twice in Neville’s life, though he knows the second time was just another attempt of his relatives’ to force some magic out of him. Not blind to the signs of nervousness, Neville guesses, and hopes, that Hermione usually is more of a conversationalist.

He’s on his way back to the compartment when he realizes that his pocket once more is void of anything but air. A general feeling of panic hits him then. Which, well, he knows it isn’t exactly rational. Trevor had disappeared enough times for him to not be surprised, but Hermione isn’t the only one who is feeling worried about their coming school year and his day so far has not proven itself to be a great one.

Biting his lip he walks back to the toilets to backtrack some, finding no signs of his lost pet, then knocks tentatively at the door of the first compartment of the next carriage. He steps in before anyone can tell him to bugger off and fights the tears welling up his eyes.

“Sorry” he says, ”but have you seen a toad at all?”

Both Ron Weasley and another boy in front of him shake their heads, looking rather confused at his presence.

“I’ve lost him! He keeps getting away from me!” He explains, and he tries to keep his voice down, but judging from the way the other two share a quick look he doesn’t really succeed.

“He’ll turn up” says the black-haired stranger, not sounding too worried, but he also doesn’t sound malicious, so that’s _something_.

“Yes,” Neville gulps, looking at the floor, aware of the way the Weasley already looks bored with him. “Well, if you see him…”

Cheeks red and hands wiping precariously at his eyes he resists the urge to check any other compartment. Trevor probably will turn up, he usually does. Neville’s just being a big baby about it.

Hermione frowns at him when he sits down in his still vacant seat. He doesn’t know how  to react when she, after he’s told her about his toad being gone, does exactly what he didn’t – stalks off to knock on each and every door all the way to the toilets and back. It doesn’t look like she disapproves of Neville immobility when she comes back quite a long while later with a frown and a _sorry_ , telling him that no one’s seen his toad.

It turns out not to be a problem at all. As always, Trevor is found, though Neville is slightly struck by the sheer size of the man handing him over to him. It is slightly terrifying seeing the man step into one of the small boats, the thought of it capsizing in the middle of the lake crossing his mind. It doesn’t happen of course, though Neville doesn’t know whether they had luck or magic to thank for that.

He swallows, heart beating fast in his chest when he’s called out on top of the stairs, before three loud knocks on the huge, oak front door renders him completely unable to give a coherent answer.

They are greeted by a serious looking witch, introduced as Professor McGonagall, who leads them into the castle, speaking sternly about the houses and house points. She speaks quickly, but not stressed, rather like she’s gone through the same words too many times before to really put any emotions into it, which, when Neville thinks about it, she probably has.

He doesn’t miss the way she eyes him specifically after telling them to “smarten themselves up” and blushes as he tries to find what’s wrong, yet fixable, with his appearance.

It’s somewhat soothing when all the other first years start to show all the usual signs of being nervous. Neville still finds his hands shaking, but it’s nice to know that in this, at least, he is not alone – even though he can’t quite shake the feeling of not belonging.

He startles badly when the ghosts appear, a small squeak flying past his lips without his intention. Which is _stupid_. He _knew_ there where ghosts at Hogwarts, has known it for quite some time actually. Proper embarrassing is what it is, even if there were a few others who also reacted quite loudly. Neville spends the rest of the time they’re waiting for Professor McGonagall to come back staring down at his shoes.

He then spends the next few minutes marvelling at the magnificence of Hogwarts’ Great Hall ceiling along with the rest of his peers. It’s beautiful, magical and it feels far too big a thing to walk in this line towards the end of the hall. When they stop and McGonagall gets a stool and a rugged hat out in front of them he can’t help but frown. Until, that is, it somehow starts singing, a rip near the brim opening, closing and moving like a mouth.

It’s both breath-taking and nerve wrecking, words sung about the qualities required for each of the houses and Neville stands there finding that he suits none of them. He’s always known he’s not brainy enough for either Ravenclaw or Slytherin, not near brave enough for Gryffindor; his hope’s always been with Hufflepuff, but a combination of just, loyal and patient is not something he can recognise as his. He feels ill.

A number of wizards and witches are sorted before him, with names he forgets as soon as a new one is called. _Longbottom, Neville_ has never been something he’s been scared to hear before. He stumbles on his way forward, feeling ill as he pulls the hat down over his head, soon covering his eyes as well.

“A Longbottom indeed, and the last of the line” a small voice says into his ear. “But oh, how distressed, worrying about things that need no worry. You _are_ to be sorted, but _where_ do I put you?” The hat hums contemplatively.

There nothing in Neville’s mind but an echoing of _please let me stay_ and a slight sliver of panic in his belly. He’s never wanted anything more in his life.

“A kind soul, no doubt. Perhaps not so patient, though there is plenty of wariness to counter. Why are you scared, Neville Longbottom? But you’re here, and you want it so much. Hufflepuff would be kind to you in turn, but it feels not right. You need to prosper and burn, you want it, I see. So there’s nothing for it but GRYFFINDOR!”

He experiences nothing short of an explosion of emotions, swallowing harshly as he stands and runs towards the cheers of the call. His cheeks are ablaze when he has to go and return the hat he forgot to take off, though the happiness of the moment still keeps his head high. He’s been sorted. He has a house and table full of people who cheered over him joining them. It’s impossible to not to smile, grinning Gryffindors all around him, looking at the rest of the sorting with something resembling peace.

At the call for a Harry Potter it drops, Neville staring wide eyed at the black-haired boy from the train, taking in the silence that’s suddenly taking over. There are whispers and shared glances at all tables when the hat is over his eyes. Neville can’t help but stare just the same as all others; he feels struck. He blushes at the realization that he’s already embarrassed himself in front of the-boy-who-lived, and it’s worse still when he thinks about the hushed whispers that had been floating around  the train that he obviously should have listened more attentively to.

There’s nothing to it now. He sighs, resigned to his fate of a continued bleak existence.

He finds himself rather disheartened for the remaining time they spend at the tables, though the food is certainly as exquisite as he’s been told to expect. Names are exchanged, Neville speaks a little about his family and their absolute fear of him being nothing more than a squib, but more than anything he listens to the others speaking. He’s never had much of a talent for putting sentences together to build anything liking to an interesting story. It’s not horrible anyway, hearing about the others from his house. _His house._ Neville will never get tired of that.

There’s mostly excitement when the prefects lead them to the common rooms, gasps of wonder and fascination all around. It really is interesting getting a first impression of the castle, but Neville also dreads having to navigate these halls by himself. He suspects he’ll have to dedicatedly hang on to his classmates for at least a month if he is to not get lost and starve to death in some remote corner of the dungeons or a lone tower.

The common room is warm and inviting, Neville wonders if it would be smart to write down the password to the fat lady in case he forgets it, because this feels safe. Everyone are notably tired, yawns and stretches all around, and there isn’t much more to do than head up to their sleeping quarters and change into pyjamas.

Neville’s pleased to discover that for once Trevor is exactly where he isn’t expected to be; his pocket. Pulling out a drawer in his bedside table he sets the toad down and wriggles out of his robes. He’s so ready for bed. He shrugs when Dean asks him whether he can set up some pictures on the wall between their two beds in the coming days, then adds a “Sure!” to that, because he really doesn’t mind and also really doesn’t want for Dean to think that he does mind. He smiles at the “Cool!” he gets in response and returns the following “Goodnight!” with “Sweet dreams!”, then promptly blushes, because that sounded a bit stupid to say to someone he only just met. It’s a good thing he can pull up his sheets over his head and bury his face in his pillow.

It isn’t as brilliant as he expected, this whole Hogwarts experience, but fantasies often prove themselves to be just that; fantasies. At least his bed is warm and the voices from Dean and Seamus are calm and soothing rather than annoying. Neville sleeps well and undisturbed that night.

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry if I made you a bit sad, I made myself sad too though, so at least we're in this together.


End file.
